I have packs of drawing pencils, I have watercolour pencils, I have watercolour paints. I have a billion sketchbooks, I have paintbrushes, I have pastel pencils, I have charcoal…loads of bits given to me by family members who used to paint. (I’m most certainly not a painter,anything involving paint remains very much unused)
I’ve always loved to draw. I’d draw all the time when I was little and there’s a drawer in my dad’s study that still has some of them in it.
I loved making cards… We went through a really long phase of doing that.
I love making things. I enjoy being creative and I like making things look nice.
But creativity wasn’t exactly the thing that was celebrated in our house. And somewhere along the lines, the comments, the nitpicking, the faults with what I produced got to me enough that I just wouldn’t do it.
Now I draw… But nobody knows I draw, nobody sees them (bar pocketcanadian). I enjoy it, but I have no confidence in what I produce.
But its good, its a good grounding technique, my t goes on about it a lot, always asks if I’ve been drawing that week.
When I was a kid we had this ‘tree house’ that was in one of the fields where we lived. It wasn’t much of a tree house… It was on an oak tree whose roots were in a stream and that had fallen over but still grew. There were a few planks that had been nailed in creating a frame and some planks to create something resembling a floor, but that was pretty much it. Where the roots where where it had fallen over, they met with the stream and went up vertically creating a sort of vertical wall (only maybe 3 or 4 feet high) a few feet away from the bank of the steam which was parallel to it. Over the top we’d put some more wood, and created a bit of a den. A small space enclosed by tree roots and a muddy bank. Full of leaves and bugs and with a wooden roof. The trickling sound of the steam right next by.
That steam led into a large pond, and on the side further away, slightly difficult to get to, was a rope swing hanging from a tree right next to the pond. A thick branch with rope wrapped around the middle of it and tied up in the top of the tree.
I’d hide out there. Take food and drink and books and stuff to draw and id hide out. Id play and make up stories. Id swing and swing for hours, sometimes being lucky enough to watch 8 beautiful little ducklings swim by.
Nobody normally cared to notice I was missing. Id used to wait, hoping and expecting someone to come down and see where i was…never really had any luck with that.
I’d hide away in my brain. Space out, dissociate. Id hide away from the experiences happening to my body.
I once ran away and hid down in our orchard. I never ran away, but one of my brothers did it frequently at the time and got a lot of attention. He’d get picked up by the police, he’d be worried about, and asked what was going on. They never even knew I was gone. So, I never did that again, I was so ashamed.
Id create tents in my bedroom all the time for a bit. Blankets over the bedposts, my own little den. Somewhere id do homework and spend my evening and try to feel safe. Somewhere I could hide from my life.
This makes me think of women’s bodies. Curvy. Not necessarily always, but typically, we are curvy. Wide child bearing hips, breasts. The differences that come with growing up. No longer flat chested, no longer straight up and down.
I have no problem with other women’s bodies being curvy, I can find it beautiful, certainly. And yet I have always despised my curves. I hate my hips, my thighs, my curves and my softness and my squishy parts. I hate my breasts. I never wear proper bras, only sports ones, because the very last thing I want to do is wear something that I feel like accentuates them. I want them to be small, unnoticeable, not something I have to deal with. I wear men’s clothes more days of the week than not. Large t-shirts, and so much of the time, big jumpers. If they are longer, go over my hips, even better. Hiding all of my sins…my boobs, my waist, my hips.
And I don’t understand this about me. Why would I want to look child-like? When that’s when I was hurt? And it’s not that I feel like I’m in the wrong body, I’ve always been a bit of a tomboy, but have always felt comfortable as a female, it’s certainly how I identify.
I don’t know, makes no sense. But I like curves on others, but on myself… I feel like taking a knife and cutting them away.
Reading pc’s post again tonight brings tears to my eyes. She writes beautifully about the ugliest of things and she’s put words to things that I had zero desire to try to write about yesterday.
I want to add some more. And I suppose there are two types to this. The physical pain, and far worse, the emotional. I’ll start with the former.
- The bruises on a body from ‘kids being kids’.
- The feeling of suffocating when your head is held underwater and however much you flail and try to get out of their grip, you can’t.
- Or when their hand is over your mouth and nose, or around your neck and you can’t escape.
- When their body is on top of yours, pinning you down.
- When your arm or leg is held so hard you end up bruised.
- When you are hit or pushed down or threatened without the requirement of words even leaving their mouth.
- When their penis is down your throat and you cannot escape. When you gag and can’t breathe, and the only air you can get into your lungs is when they release the pressure of their hand on the back of your head and you can pull back just long enough that you can breathe through your nose again before they thrust your head back forward and you’re suffocating. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat x 100.
- When you disappear to wherever you can, because the things they are doing to your body are more than you can cope with.
- When doors are slammed on hands. Objects thrown at faces. Plates and glasses smashed on the wall behind you.
- The sweet sharp pain that is self inflicted in order to try to bring yourself back to the present, or punish yourself, or just feel *something*. Or rather, actually, to so often feel nothing, to numb everything happening in your brain and body, to remove yourself from it all.
And yet, the actual physical pain and fear is short lived right? Ha. No, not really. Because the emotional pain brings them back all the fucking time. Periods become triggers where your body feels like it’s still happening, over and over, where your memories torment you. And all of these things come back, out of nowhere, when you least expect it, when you might be having a good day, and then SLAM. Hit in the face with this shit, out of nowhere, for no reason that you can pinpoint.
And as pc has said, all of the other shattering things.
- The fact that they chose him, yet again. The fact that you’re not chosen. The knowledge that you won’t ever be.
- The fear that has your knees curled up to your chest whilst you sit on the floor of the shower for half an hour hoping that the water will wash it all off of you.
- The birthdays, the christmases, the fathers days, the mothers days, the lunches, the dinners, the family gatherings, the celebrations.
- The never ending silencing.
- The earth shattering loss of parents that can make you feel orphaned, and alone and like you won’t survive it.
- The shame. The white hot, flushed cheeks, sweaty bodied shame.
- The fucking ocean of grief. And the ocean of grief that you haven’t been able to cry for in years.
- The years spent taking care of yourself because nobody else will. The putting yourself to bed and the crying yourself to sleep at night.
- The feeling unseen, unheard, unappreciated, unloved. Unloveable.
- The taking all of it on so that you can retain some semblance of control.
There are so many more. This list isn’t even close to exhaustive, but I have another post I need to write.
Okay, come on 🙄. I would need a fucking month to write everything that flickers into my mind for this stupid gd word.
And I don’t want to. No thank you. Not tonight.
I can’t think of earth without thinking of my grandmother. An avid and exceptionally good gardener, it was her real passion. She would make the garden of whichever house they lived in completely beautiful. Designing it, placing ponds in, digging up borders, creating sections, creating a rose garden and just making it beautiful. Her gardens were never perfectly neat, straight lines or anything like that, they would curve all lovely with paths and places to sit, and the borders would be so many mixes of different flowers. Beautiful different coloured poppies in the summer, pinks, which always remind me of her, which I used to sketch in the garden, irises, my favourite. Whenever I went there, almost every day, if she wasnt busy with the girl guides or baking, she would be in her tracky bottoms, dirty with mud. Muddy hands and fingernails, always jobs to be doing in the garden, hands in the earth, planting or weeding or potting on or digging up veg. I actually enjoy it too sometimes, being outside hand in the soil, on my own, helping things grow.
I wanted to keep thinking about this one, see if anything came to mind. Nothing really came to mind to begin with in the first place. I think I started to think of funerals, and of honoring somebody’s memory. But I didn’t have much to say on that, so I googled the word, wanting the proper definition and synonyms. Dumb move… Integrity, honesty, morality, etc.
And honestly it just feels like bullshit. My parents hold my brother in high esteem. They are so proud of him… He’s in the forces and he’s so wonderful and he’s the perfect son that they can tell people about. He’ll give them grandkids, he’s engaged to a lovely woman. They think he’s amazing. He’s in the armed forces and isn’t that just so honorable, doesn’t that make him so amazing….And they know what he did to me. But that doesn’t register with them.
So I just think this words a load of crap…